


Time and Change

by rileyriley



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Developing Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mage Rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileyriley/pseuds/rileyriley
Summary: Maybe Hawke was right (Hawke, Hawke, Hawke): he should go after his master; draw him out of Tevinter; end this waiting. Staying in Kirkwall suddenly seems suffocating - that was why he never fixed up the mansion, wasn’t it? Because he knew he would never stay.  He would never be allowed to stay and feel secure.  Staying is for people with futures.  Until Danarius is dead, he has no future.
At least that’s what he thought.  Until Hawke kept listening.  Not in the way Anders does - to argue with him, or Varric, to find which story will impress a crowd more.  Hawke asks for his help, his opinions.  Treats him as a person, as any other (every other) person she meets, with earnest sympathy.
---
An unfinished WIP I have decided to post here anyway. I won't be finishing it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this a while ago, when I had first played dragon age 2. My Hawke has changed a lot since i started this, most importantly in who she ultimately romances, so I really can't find it in myself to finish this. It's still a long piece so I wanted to share it, and I touched on some things in Fenris's characterization that I'm proud of having written & still stand despite the development my Hawke has gone through.

If anyone ever asked him, Fenris would say his second-best talent is drinking other people’s wine. Well, he would only admit that drunk.  Which he is not, yet, because he can still make it up the stairs from the wine cellar without tripping.

Maybe he ought to go back down and get another two bottles. Not the Aggrigio - no, he wanted to save that (for Hawke? No, something else, not her, not her, _not her_.)  Or maybe he should finally spend some coin on cheap Kirkwall ale since he decided to get drunk to be drunk, not from overindulging in rich wines.

He drinks from one of the bottles on the table - or, tries to: it’s empty.  His grip tightens and he throws it across the room, but all it does is land with a thud and roll to the wall. He opens a new bottle and takes a long drink, then tries to use the sharp claws of his gauntlets to wheedle the cork to nothing.

He tries to ignore the afterimages of his memories every time he blinks. He feels like he’s seeing the pictures of someone else’s life; tries to ignore how his white hair seems both unfamiliar and the only thing right about his body.

Tries to will away the alluring feeling of happiness and peace.

Fenris may not know much about his life, but he knows that he is never allowed to keep those things.

Maybe Hawke was right (Hawke, Hawke, Hawke): he should go after his master; draw him out of Tevinter; end this waiting. Staying in Kirkwall suddenly seems suffocating - that was why he never fixed up the mansion, wasn’t it? Because he knew he would never stay.  He would never be allowed to stay and feel secure.  Staying is for people with futures.  Until Danarius is dead, he has no future.

At least that’s what he thought.  Until Hawke kept listening.  Not in the way Anders does - to argue with him, or Varric, to find which story will impress a crowd more.  Hawke asks for his help, his opinions.  Treats him as a person, as any other (every other) person she meets, with earnest sympathy.

But this was to be like anything else: to be taken, ripped away, leaving him less real than he was before.

Leaving it behind before it could be taken was supposed to be easier, less painful.  It wasn’t.  It isn’t.  He drinks his wine until he can’t remember why he started.

 

Fenris has a personal vendetta against the sliver of light cast on the floor. It’s too warm and too bright, and he can’t find the will to move out of the way.

He hears doors open and close, and footsteps across old, musty floorboards.  “Alright, Broody,” he hears, “you don’t need to live up to your nickname quite so literally.” Varric, for as much as he says he hates Hightown, evidently does not hate it enough to leave him alone. He wonders why short dwarves are always so loud but looming Qunari can be so silent as he nurses a bottle in his bed.  

There’s a whistle and _Maker, I didn’t know he’d be this bad_ from the hall, and Fenris lumbers up and leans against the wall too hard for there to be any hope that he can swing a sword and hit a dead nug laying right in front of him.

“Did Aveline send you to squeeze taxes out of me?” Fenris says, and barks out a laugh, “Or did you run out of coin for the Hanged Man’s pints of piss?”  He gestures with the wine bottle to the empty ones scattered around the room.

“You haven’t broken Aveline’s moral righteousness yet, Broody, but don’t keep your hopes up.”  Varric swirls some of the bottles to see if any of them actually have wine left in them for him to drink.  “Can’t I want to see a friend? I was in the area, so hey, why not visit my best buddy with the giant mansion and dead bodies and never-ending wine cellar?”

Fenris scoffs and takes another drink from his bottle.  Varric evidently finds one that isn’t yet empty and does the same.

“Go ahead, I bequeath to you, Varric Tethras, the wine cellar I do not own.  To Isabela: the bed and all the silks and gold in the house.” Fenris frowns, then gestures with the bottle. “To Anders: the dead bodies and every speck of mold under this roof.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on your wishes, but — that’s not why I’m here.”  Fenris leans his back against the wall and drinks. Of course this; he knew it would come.  Why did he not leave sooner, before they could catch up with him?  “We miss your cold glares and threatening silence at the Hanged Man! And Daisy doesn’t bring quite the same air of indifference-laced malice to card games, you know?”

Fenris lays his head against the wall. “Do you call everyone you can gamble money away from friends?”

“Just come by the Hanged Man sometime soon, alright? I’d hate to have to make something up about your tragic and untimely death in such a boring mansion.  You have much better blaze-of-glory options than this.”

Fenris sneers, and drinks.

 

Fenris considered getting drunk before going to the Hanged Man, but he could get just as drunk here or there, and staggering through Lowtown was never a good idea. Even with a sword strapped to his back and lyrium glowing.

The door swings open on well-worn hinges, and he sees Varric by the fireplace, as always, with a small crowd around him, a pint in his hand, and a story on his lips. The rest of the tables are filled as always, and Isabela is in her back corner - listening to Hawke gesturing and telling a story.  He feels his blood run cold, then hot as Varric calls out a friendly “Broody! My favourite Hightown-squatting elf! Don’t worry, you haven’t missed the best stories yet.”

He hasn’t turned his eyes from Hawke, hiding her face in a mug and Isabela’s hand on her shoulder.  He turns to leave; there was no reason for him to come and now every reason to leave.

“You can’t leave already,” Varric calls, “I even put your name on my tab! Who else can give me a run for my money at cards and that I know doesn’t cheat?”

“Hey,” Fenris hears Isabela shout back, “I only cheat when you cheat.”

The whole tavern laughs.

“I am not here for you to pay for my drinks with my coin,” Fenris says, and turns to cross his arms at Varric.

“Fine then,” Varric concedes, putting his hands up in defeat. “But I’m sure these lovely patrons would like me to finish my story about the demon we met in the Deep Roads…”

Fenris does not order a drink at the bar (surreptitiously, of course, put on Varric’s tab),  and does not sit at a table on the edge of Varric’s stories.  He does not watch Hawke from the corner of his eyes, does not wonder if he should talk to her, and does not, ever, wish he had the courage to do so.

Varric finishes his story and calls for a round of Diamondback, and Fenris takes the cards dealt to him because it means there is something that isn’t Hawke to look at.  He plays three hands and loses every single one.  Anders’s and Isabela’s squabbling manages to raise his spirits. After that, he sits, drinks, and watches the game at the table.

(He hasn’t seen Hawke - did she and Merrill leave as soon as he entered?)

Anders’s most obvious tell in Diamondback is making an equally lewd comment back to Isabela when she tries to distract him.  But Isabela is evidently feeling bad about winning so much money off him, or wants to make him feel confident enough he bets more than he can afford to lose.  Fenris swirls his drink and raises an eyebrow at her, and she laughs when she catches his eye.  Varric returns with drinks, having already folded his hand.

“Brooding, brooding, more brooding,” Varric says. “What did I tell you about brooding in the Hanged Man!” Anders smiles like a cat and doesn’t seem to notice Isabela’s more-than-enthusiastic loss, but quietly pushes half his winnings to Fenris. “You either have to play another hand, or go back to your dark, brooding mansion for your dark, brooding thoughts.  This is a place for fun!”

“Or I could get paid to just sit here—money which I so graciously loaned without interest.” Anders scoffs; there had been an argument about interest which was only settled because they had both been drunk at the time and Varric evidently likes to pretend they’re actually friends.

“But that’s not fun,” Varric repeats. “If we didn’t like you, we wouldn’t have invited you.”

Fenris picks at nothing under his nails. “And here I thought you only wanted me for my money and impossible poker face.”

“I’m only here for his money,” Anders graciously supplies and Fenris graciously ignores.

“I don’t know,” Isabela starts, and, oh, this is going to go south, Fenris knows it, “I think he’s nice to look at.  Makes up for the rest of the ugly in here.”  His stomach twists in an odd way.  He doesn’t know why, but he tries to take it as a compliment anyway.

Anders, though, has the audacity to be offended, and manages to sputter, “And I’m not pretty?”

Isabela smiles and pats his cheek. “Don’t worry, love, you still have your electricity thing.”

“Is that all I’m good for?”

“You’re a man, Anders, of course it is.”

Anders huffs and goes back to stacking his coins, and Isabela laughs. Varric is already dealing another round to everyone at the table. Fenris picks up his hand with a smile, and sees Isabela already trying to sneak glances at Anders’s hand.

* * *

 

Blood, for what Fenris remembers, has never bothered him.  It was a part of his life, his job: unavoidable, messy, and often necessary.  He has stowed away on enough ships, walked through Darktown, himself suffered and seen enough suffering to find trembling voices and cries of desperation as nothing more than background noise.  He has seen both, together - Carta, Coterie, blood mages.

Hawke does not tremble, does not fear.  She is brave and hopeful.

The wavering in her voice as they run through the dark Lowtown streets makes him want to rip out the hearts of every Templar that ever ignored a rumors as more Lowtown gossip.

Fighting their way through the eerie Foundry building, the lyrium in his skin can feel the wild fear in Hawke’s magic.  He swings his sword harder, and does not look at her.  And finally, when they look through the books —anatomy, embalming, necromancy—he feels the white-hot crackle of anger and terror—and he fears touching her, lest her anger burn him.  Varric tries to make light, but even his joke falls from his lips before he can finish it.

When Hawke catches her mother, he feels nothing.

He does not leave with any _I told you so’s_ or _inevitability of blood magic_.  Even Anders says nothing, to him or to Hawke, and simply puts a comforting hand on Hawke’s shoulder as she cries, still holding her mother.

Fenris feels light-headed, the brutal fighting over and his lyrium no longer has magic to sing with.  He wishes the mage were alive, only so he could kill the man again, again, again.

Hawke holds desperately to Anders as she stands, finally ready to leave this wretched place. Fenris kneels next to Leandra’s body and closes her eyes, removes the veil that was never hers, and picks up her body to carry her to a proper funeral. The lines of lyrium hiss and burn at the dark blood magic still clinging to her corpse, but he is familiar with pain. It does not bother him.

Bodahn answers the door somberly when he knocks, and he hears Gamlen yelling from inside the house. No voice counters his tirade.  Bodahn must be used to death, as he does not flinch or turn away at the body in his arms.

Gamlen, though, almost bolts from the house, then almost vomits, but, finally, promises to take care of the funeral arrangements without prompting. Fenris still finds family confusing, but he thinks he understands why Gamlen still will do this despite the fact he clearly does not want to.

Fenris climbs the stairs to Hawke’s room slowly, and his tongue is still caught in his throat standing at the door  to her room. “I do not know what to say,” he says quietly, and sees Hawke nearly jump out of her skin, “but I am here.”

She breathes out, hands pulling restlessly at her hair, her clothes. “I am to blame for this - for not saving her.”

This is a guilt Fenris is familiar with, and it is one he knows she should not bear. “I could say no, but would that help?” He steps towards her, and finally, she looks towards him.  She yields, and he knows this was the right choice. “You are looking for forgiveness, but I’m not the one  who can give it to you.”

Hawke lets out a breath, high and strained, and curls in on herself. “Gamlen will never—“  She takes in a sharp breath as he sits next to her.

“Not him,” he says, “and you do not have to do it now.”  He puts a hand on her shoulder, and there is no burn of magic or pain of rejection.  Hawke falls into him, and cries.

“I can’t do it,” she says between sobs, “I couldn’t - I can’t —“

He rocks her and shushes her, and it feels too strangely familiar.  “I am here,” he says, “so take your time.”

Dawn is already breaking by the time she falls asleep, and he stays at the side of her bed.  Bodahn knocks politely at the door, but it has been open all night.  He steps in with a tray of tea and Fenris nods in thanks, setting it on the bedside table.  

The sun is high when she wakes, and the teapot is empty at her bedside.

* * *

 

Mages, Fenris tells himself, are already halfway to the abuses of Tevinter Magisters.  A mage just needs to be desperate or bored or unhappy or ambitious enough - and all mages eventually do - and they will turn to blood magic and demons.

All mages, Fenris tells himself and tightens his fist, all mages —

He watches Hawke kneel down to a crying child — small, dirty, and probably Ferelden— and wipe her tears away.  She whistles for her mabari, who comes bounding across the street, forgetting the cat it was terrorizing, and leans its head down for the girl to pet.  Hawke’s staff is not hidden, but Lowtown is easy enough to lose and get lost in.  Fenris looks over his shoulder out of habit (for who? City Guardsmen? Slavers? Templars?) but no one stands out or catches his eye.  

The girl laughs, and a woman, maybe her sister or mother, picks her up and holds her close. The woman’s clothes are as dirty as the rest of Lowtown, and Hawke smiles and shakes her head as the woman thanks her, and leaves.

Hawke stands, still not having noticed Fenris’s presence.  He clears his throat.  As soon as she sees him, she casts her eyes downwards.  

“Fenris,” she says. “Didn’t know you’d be in Lowtown.”

“There is work,” he says. She refuses to look at him, and he is trying desperately to catch her eye.  “I am glad to see you are doing better,” he ventures.

“I am.” She bites her lips like she wants to say something and Fenris doesn’t know if his gaze has become inappropriate for her mourning.  Hawke steps forward, and finally looks at him.  “I understand why you distrust mages, and why you support the Circle.” Her eyes are hesitant and scared, but her voice does not waver and her stance is firm.  She glances away as she searches for words, and she looks back with them.  “I never want to hurt anyone, not like Quentin or Tahrone and the Templar recruits.”

It’s his turn to look away now.  Fenris doesn’t understand what she’s asking.  She continues.

“I don’t want to be like them, I don’t want to ever turn into them.  If you think I might - because all mages do, because maybe I’m just as — crazy — then take me to the Circle right now.” Fenris can’t make himself look at her, and pretends he didn’t hear the hitch in her voice.  “If this really is the only way, I won’t protest.  I’ll turn myself in.  I’ll even ask them to make me Tranquil.”  She almost reaches out to grab his arm, to command his attention again, but she pulls back.  “Please, Fenris.”

Fenris stares at the ground between them, lips drawn tight.  Hawke looks for some answer in his face, his posture, his silence, and finds nothing.  She walks, and Fenris follows.

The walk to the Docks is not long, but they do not rush and there are many busy streets.  Hawke says nothing.  Fenris does not lift his gaze from her feet as he follows.  The stairs go on and on, winding down through the city, and Hawke stops short to let a cart pass.  Fenris jerks his head up — and sees the Gallows looming in the distance.

The cart passes. Hawke’s face is blank. They continue.

Fenris hates the smell of the Docks, all rotten fish and tepid seawater.  His head is swirling, but it’s not adrenaline or lyrium or magic.  His stomach clenches tight as they pass docked merchant ships.

He reaches out to grab her arm and forces out a quiet, “No.”

Hawke stops, but does not turn to him.  “I am an apostate,” she says evenly, but there is a high tension in her voice.

“No,” he repeats.  Hawke does not move, and Fenris’s mind has not stopped swirling. “You do not belong there,” he tries.

She turns to him, but does not look at him. “I am dangerous. I’ll hurt someone, one day.”

“You will not,” he says, and sounds more confident than he feels. “I believe you. I can… understand why you hate the Circle.”

She is quiet, and he worries she doesn’t believe him.  “I am a mage,” she says finally.

“I know,” He says, and his grip tightens. “Do not go.”

She takes her arm from his grip and finally looks at him.  She wants to say something, but thinks better of it, and walks away.  Fenris does not follow and does not think it is his place to follow her.  He watches her go.  She walks past the ships that would sail out of Kirkwall. She holds her head tall past the ships that would take her to the Gallows, and ducks down the stairs into Darktown, unnoticed.

A boy runs by, a group of children chasing him.  Sailors shout as they move and count and load crates.  A beggar kneels, hands out, asking for crumbs.  Fenris turns and walks back to Hightown, and stops in Lowtown to buy as much wine as he can carry.

It is Isabela, this time, who comes to his door with forced smiles draped over worry.

* * *

 

The Qunari attack was not unsurprising, Fenris thinks, but only that it took so long to happen.  The real surprise was that Isabela came back for Hawke, and Hawke protected her.  Hawke who had wholly put her trust in Isabela to do the right thing; Hawke, who had cursed her out when they found the note;  who had named her to the Arishok out of anger and betrayal.  Hawke, who protected her when she returned.

Before the Arishok asks for a duel, _maybe good change can really happen_ crosses Fenris’s mind.  After he asks, Fenris can only think, _I cannot lose you this way_.

The Knight-Commander appointing Hawke Champion of Kirkwall is an irony beyond comparison.

The official ceremony is two weeks later, after most of the bodies have been put to rest and Hightown cleared for such a presentation.  The streets in front of the Viscount’s Keep are filled with people, many still hopeless and homeless from the attack. Varric fights his way towards the head of the crowd, mostly by kicking shins and people being too scared to stand near Fenris.  Isabela follows, one arm around Merrill and the other with a mug that doesn’t seem to empty.  Aveline stands with her guards around the podium, but not even the bright sun and heavy armor can hide her smile.  

There are speeches and prayers and thanks.  Fenris spots Sebastian among those representing the Chantry.  When they get close enough, he sees Hawke glancing to her estate and wonders if Anders is hiding in a room, overlooking the procession from safety.

The day is hot, the ceremony is too long, and there are too many people.  Fenris leaves soon after the Knight-Commander’s speech.  The words are all politics and bullshitting, talks about the future of recovery, and this is only a show to placate the people.  But he tells himself Kirkwall is not his city and the mansion is not his home.  It feels like a lie.

The celebrations go late into the night, but Fenris stays in his house.  From the far corners of his bedroom, it almost sounds like quiet.

There is a cursory knock at his bedroom door, which means it isn’t Isabela.  There is no yelling about the corpses either, so the quiet means it isn’t Varric.  A figure sits in the chair across from him, and he knows it is Hawke.

“I couldn’t find you after the ceremony,” she says.

He takes a drink from his cup. “It was too hot.” The words feel hollow in his mouth. He remembers ceremonies in Tevinter, and having to stand for long hours behind Danarius.  He sees her posture shift and fall from the corner of his eye, and he knows she’s seen through his lie.

“It’s all right; I think most of Kirkwall only showed up for the free food.” She tries to laugh, but it comes out like a sigh.  “I found you now, at least.”

“You’ve done better than the Slave-hunters,” Fenris says.   _You are better than anyone I have ever met_ , he does not say.  “I almost wish I had saved the last bottle of the Aggrigio for this, instead.”

Hawke shakes her head.  “No, this is politics. This is—nothing.  Meredith trying to appease.”

“For killing the Arishok, then,” Fenris says with a tight smile hidden behind his glass. “Something the Fog Warriors could only dream of.”

Hawke smiles and laughs a real laugh, and it feels good.  She pours herself a glass and raises it to him before taking a drink.  She removes her ceremonial vambraces and greaves, and settles into the overstuffed seat.

They have a comfortable silence over their glasses, but he sees Hawke constantly fidgeting.

“I have missed you,” Hawke says finally, and Fenris keeps his eyes on the table in front of him. “I… I thought after you - you only needed time to sort things out.” She stares at the empty fireplace and sinks in her armour. She looks so small behind her heavy chest plate, and Fenris wants to take the heavy weight off her shoulders.  He doesn’t know if that means the heavy armour she is unused to wearing.

“I haven’t been gone,” he says, and she lets out a tight laugh.  

She looks at him for a long while, and says, “I care about you, Fenris,” then glances away and adds, “Still.”

His fingers tighten briefly around his glass, and doesn’t keep her gaze. He remembers what he told himself after that first night: he is not allowed to have these things. But Hawke has lost all her family, has saved a city, has done more than anyone should be forced through, and still cares for him.

He has poured all his trust in her, and, he realizes, she has given it back in equal measure. Hawke took his fears and didn’t argue or belittle; she just acted and shared.

**Author's Note:**

> so the plan for the rest of the story was bathe -> sleep in bed together -> wake up sex maybe?? -> hawke leaves for some Official Things -> fenris wakes up later and finds that she left the red wrist thing behind and he keeps it. small cute glances. love.


End file.
